


the sacred and the profane

by sevastre



Series: a voice in the dark [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 05:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12741768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevastre/pseuds/sevastre
Summary: And what do the Gods tell you in the throes of your fevered nightmares, in the depths of the darkest despair you’ve ever known? Halone the Warrior says to spill their blood. Halone the Fury says there is naught to be found in forgiveness. Her wrath is not of flame, but of the blackest ice-- hardened and unyielding, and in it you will find the reflection of your truest self.An examination into the lives of Fray and Sidurgu as apprentices.





	the sacred and the profane

In his dreams, he walks the halls of the Tribunal. He’s older, too, an odd detail to have in a dream; perhaps it’s a premonition. But it doesn’t matter. 

It doesn’t matter how he got in, how many bodies litter the bloodied stone behind him: with a single hew of Deathbringer, he breaks down the heavy door leading to the lower chambers. Deeper and deeper he stalks, where the air turns stale and smells of old blood and hot iron. His shadow cast by the flickering torches heralding his arrival has grown impossibly long, impenetrably dark-- but he wears it comfortably.

It doesn’t matter how he finds him, his quarry- the inquisitor with the beautiful amber eyes and the gentle smile: not in the torture chambers that stink to high heavens of fear, but in a vast cathedral graced by the stone gaze of Halone, blind and unseeing. 

She stands tall with her spear held aloft, the artful flowing curves of her robes spilling down into a vast bed of bright red flowers that tremble with a breeze he cannot feel. Sidurgu crushes them underfoot as he stalks closer and closer to that lithe, tall figure bent at the statue's feet, head bowed in supplication. He spares the Goddess no prayer for the quarry he has finally cornered-- she bears witness to his fevered dreams, and watches him relive his sorrow every night. It is only fair. _Watch me, goddess, as I offer your little obedient lamb’s blood to the dark._

He stand there, the shadows dripping from his armor pooling and hissing on the stone tile-- a hundred-thousand tiny screaming accusations telling him to devour, to eat his fill. Sidurgu gives into the request as easily as breathing comes to him, and it feels right.

It doesn’t matter if the Inquisitor recognizes him. There is no grand revelation, no accusatory speech filled with righteous anger, no bitter resignation at the hollowness of justice exacted eighteen years too late. Instead he is alight with the blessed benediction of the thrill of the hunt, of the knowledge that there is nothing more hallowed in the pursuit of what he does than the sight of the blood of the guilty slicked upon all of Ishgard, all in the name of vengeance.

It doesn’t matter if the Inquisitor begs for forgiveness, acknowledges his wrongs, or even spits that he and his kind still deserve to be left to rot for daring to look like kin to the Dravanians. In his wildest dreams, in his most fevered, yearning wishes, Sidurgu slaughters all who were complicit in his suffering, and revels in the terror he has wrought.

One stroke of his blade would be enough to snap the man in half like heavy snowfall in the winter does to a withered branch, but he never gets the chance to make it simple. The Inquisitor makes a move for his own weapon, or the Enchiridion strapped to his side like a grimoire (but if he’s being honest, the distinction makes no difference.) Sid effortlessly knocks the stupid little thing from his hands and crushes the man’s soft throat in an iron grip, with the kind of primal rage that only danger can evoke. 

He pins him to the base of Halone’s statue with the force of his full weight, and slowly drives the razor-sharp fingertips of his gauntlet up and through into his chest. Muscle and bone snap and give way, slow and intimate, as Sidurgu watches him writhe and choke on his own blood, before he drops the thing onto the ground. Those amber eyes stare sightlessly up into the heavens, face twisted in a rictus of agony, but dreams have never whet his appetite. Then Sidurgu kneels, and bows his head in prayer. 

O Goddess, this blood I spill in offering to you. I came not to bring peace, but to put your children to the sword; I have come to test your faithful with the weight of their own deeds, and should I find them wanting, their dues will be paid twofold in blood. I will set your lambs against one another, son against son, daughter against daughter, and we will see if their love for you delivers them from my hand. 

Then, very abruptly, he’s shaken awake. He turns his head to see Fray’s face mere inches from his and gives a great start, violence writ on every inch of his trembling, sweat-stained body. 

“You dream very loudly,” Fray says, completely unfazed. His eyes-- sallow and pale in the weak candlelight-- are narrowed in mild irritation, as if Sidurgu had simply tossed and turned one too many times in his sleep. “We bunk together when Ser Ompagne’s not here, and when no one’s around to keep an eye on you. You’re going to have to learn how to control it.”

Sidurgu, half sleep-addled and half furiously embarrassed, scrambles up onto his elbows. Fray follows the motion by moving up and away, avoiding being clocked in the chin by Sidurgu’s horns, and rolls onto his stomach, yawning hugely without a single care in the world. His short Brume-brown hair is flattened on the side he slept on, and he looks exhausted. But after a short stretch, Fray sits up into a kneel. “Come on,” he says, a little impatiently, after Sidurgu does nothing but stare. “Get up. Same stance as me.”

The cold is bitter as the scratchy, stiff blanket they slept under slides away from him as he kicks out, slowly folding his legs under him once he’s free. He’s bone tired, and still embarrassed, but Fray treats it all with such a brusque, unflinching manner that he doesn’t feel compelled to get up and leave. “...What are we doing?” he asks, his voice coming out scratchy and sleep-fogged. 

“Meditating,” Fray replies, and rolls his sleeves up. He settles his hands on his knees and breathes in once, his chest rising and falling visibly under his thick hempen shirt. “Think about something empty. Something you can’t fill with anger, or fear, or resentment.”

The inane nature of the task irritates him. “If I could will it away, I would have a long time ago.” He starts to get up. “If it bothers you so, I can sleep elsewhere.”

“You walk the path,” Fray replies, and Sidurgu is vaguely discomfited by the intensity of his pale gaze. “I share your dreams because they're mine, too, but the difference is that I've learned that these dreams can consume you, spit you out and make you into something else. If you can't even control this, then you're not worthy. Sit down. I won't ask again.”

Reluctantly, he kneels again, his awkward towering form a hulking crouch in comparison to Fray’s slighter, relaxed pose. His nerves are still all alight with the vividness and sheer emotion of his dreams, and he thinks, furiously, of what empty means to him. 

A caravan, pulled by the great hulking beasts of the Steppe, at rest. The canvas stretched across its sturdy bone frame is colorful, beautifully made. Inside, the interior smells of wood and spices-- a colorful spray of dried berries and meat and root vegetables are hung up in one corner; a mess of blankets and drapes adorn the other. Enough room for a growing boy to comfortably nestle for a nap, big enough for a child of only eight summers to think it enough to hold a whole world. Birds chirp quietly outside, and the sound of rushing water is but a whisper amongst the gentle rustle of leaves and branches. 

But with the caravan comes memories less tranquil, less fond. Sidurgu is seized with the notion that this memory is just of them at rest when they weren't running from the iron hand of the Empire. Scattered like so much chaff in the wind, like prey chased by slavering hunting dogs-- except that it _did_ happen…

The bay of dogs. An answering horn-call, and strange animal gaits on snow straying closer and closer. The sound of unsheathing steel. A calm, beautiful amber gaze, crystalline in the frigid midday Coerthan sun, and blood, so much blood-- redder than any red Sidurgu remembers seeing, and _fear_. Suddenly, the hunger inside of him sears its furious demand for vengeance into his head... 

“No,” Fray gasps, through a clenched jaw, and Sidurgu’s head snaps up. He looks worse than before, his chest heaving unevenly. His sweat has begun gathering around his neckline, damp and heavy. His gaze is fixed on Sid’s, calm and fathomless as usual, such a contrast to his own tumultuous moods. “No. I told you, nothing that makes you feel.” He scrubs one hand across his face, and utters a low groan. “Twelve have mercy.”

“Why does this happen?” Sidurgu whispers, his voice hoarse. His hands are trembling. So is his voice. “Does it hurt you too?” 

Fray doesn't answer for a while, closing his eyes again while he controls his breathing. “The echoes of our soulstones are fraught with loss and pain. We pray to no Gods, save for power. The darkness heeds our call, and takes what we feel for itself. Feeds on it. Lets it ferment and rot… and it becomes a miasma. What you and I feel is the sum of our power, raw and unfiltered, before we channel it into a blade for justice or to call upon the dark arts as a way to defend, or maintain control. Most of us who walk the path struggle with this delicate balance until the end of our lives.”

“Right,” Sidurgu croaks. “So when Ompagne took me on, it was out of pity. Two disciples, one who lays waste indiscriminately, and the other who’s _actually_ told things, is that it?” 

The acid feeling in his chest sits, and lingers, and Sidurgu has never been one to take things lying down, curled up in the corner, to wallow away his pain with stagnancy. He gets to his feet, and stumbles away-- but Fray reaches out and grabs the end of his tail, violently. 

“Do we run?” Fray asks, and Sidurgu is stunned by the sheer restraint of the quiet fury in his voice. “Does it look like he or I intend on leaving you to fester away with-- that-- in you?” For the first time, he sees something close to raw pain on Fray’s face, normally placid as a frozen Coerthan lake. It’s like a bucket of ice water thrown in his face.

Fray repeats himself again, quietly. “Do we run?”

And Sidurgu can only shake his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Some closing thoughts and comments: 
> 
> 1: Unbeta’d. 
> 
> 2: All lore in here is referenced from my copy of Encyclopaedia Eorzea and rewatching the DRK cutscenes. Everything else is purely synthesis. Not everything will be canon-compliant. As Sid is 26, and Fray 25 before his death, and Sid having lost his family at 11, I will assume that he was saved first by Ser Ompagne, and Fray shortly afterwards. In this fic, I’ll be writing under the headcanon that Fray has been apprenticed under Ompagne for about three years longer than Sidurgu. 
> 
> 3: There will be 12 chapters in this fic, perhaps less if I decide to split several into other separate stories. Tags will be added as the story progresses. May not be in chronological order, and may be a series of oneshots. (I'm really not sure, forgive me, I'm terrible at planning stories.)
> 
> 4: Last but not least, there will be spoilers for the DRK questline all the way up until 70. Best to have finished that before you delve into this.


End file.
